An Inadvisable Wager (The Curse of the Weatherby Ball Book 2)

by Eliza Lloyd

  “Goodbye, brother. Let me know when you will return to Whitmarsh.”

  “Not for a few days but do say a prayer for me. I will have to endure Reverend Wright’s sermonizing all the way without you there to counter him,” Timothy replied. “I’ll be glad to go home. I don’t think I could bear traveling on to Kent with him. Or without you.”

  “I’ll send a letter to Lady Fortenay, but when you see her, reassure her she is not to worry. And tell Gigi I am sorry for the deception.”

  “This was our plan. I will take the responsibility with you.”

  “Hopefully, she’ll understand.”

  Carlow came around the corner, neither jovial nor angry. She squeezed Timothy’s hand. “It’s all going to work out,” she whispered.

  Carlow glanced at Timothy. “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak, Lord Wargrave,” he said.

  “There wasn’t much time.” Timothy leaned toward Nora and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you soon, sister. My lord.” He bowed to them and walked away.

  Carlow watched him depart toward the carriage, and a few moments later Reverend Wright scurried behind him and the coach lurched away. Carlow’s coach waited and he assisted Nora inside with an easy grip. “Where does your brother live?”

  “Whitmarsh.”

  “In Dorset?”

  “Yes, near Dorchester. My guardians are Lord and Lady—”

  “Fortenay. They’ve been retired from London for several years, haven’t they? My parents knew them. Let me clarify, my mother knew them. My father probably knew them.”

  “They aren’t dead.”

  “What did they think of your scheme?”

  “To get my birthright returned? To get my home back? I didn’t see it as a scheme, so they didn’t either,” she said. “While they might have advised me in certain matters, they were in agreement about the pure animus involved in the theft of Wargrove’s properties.”

  “From my point of view, it has the scent of schemey-ness. Ah, here we are,” he said as the carriage came to a halt.

  She laughed. “Already? You live across the park from the Weatherby Mansion and you took a carriage?”

  “Keeping up appearances.” Carlow opened the door and jumped out. “Come, my dear, let’s get you settled. You can enjoy a bath. Afterward, I will give you a tour of the house and then we can have tea and some sweets. Or lunch if you prefer.” He led her up the marble stairs and the majordomo opened the door.

  Nora glanced at the large open foyer with a wide staircase leading upward. The floor was a mosaic pattern and shined to a high gloss. Open double doors were on each side of the vestibule leading to large sitting areas. Red was the predominant color in each room with several matching pieces. Like eidetic images.

  “Carlow, I am tired, and my stomach can’t take another bite right now.”

  She strolled to one of the rooms and glanced up at the sheer grandeur.

  “Ignore the red. One’s the white room, the other the black room. Mintz, if you haven’t guessed, this is Lady Carlow. Mintz is in charge of the household servants and my general aide. Would you show my wife to her room? Is the bath drawn and her bed made up?” Graham asked.

  “Yes, my lord. We’ve been awaiting your arrival.”

  “Good. I’ll have tea at my desk.” He stared at her again. “Nora, my home is a peaceful place. I want it to stay that way.”

  “So was Henbury Hall when I was a child.”

  He hesitated; his brow wrinkled in consternation. “I have a few things I need to discuss with you about Henbury, once you’ve rested.”

  “You are not backing out of our agreement?” she asked.

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  * * * * *

  The time to talk with Nora had come and gone. Gabriel would tell her before they left for Henbury Hall. It would be a hard discussion. He would have to admit his father’s weaknesses and Nora would have to hear the hard truth. Unfortunately, Gabriel would look like an accomplice in whatever scheme Nora believed had happened.

  Mintz reported that Nora’s lady’s maid informed him that Lady Carlow had indeed bathed then promptly fell asleep, where she currently rested in sweet repose. In his room. On his bed.

  He shouldn’t be thinking so much about that small detail, but he wanted her to be comfortable and content. He also wanted to be comfortable and very content, but that would have to wait until he’d earned a little of Nora’s trust.

  How did he prove he was trustworthy? How did he prove his father had acquired the property legally, though he had been negligent in its care? And why did Gabriel care? He’d just been bamboozled, and he was happy as a lark about it. Lord, he was as mad as his father.

  When she didn’t come down for dinner, Gabriel ordered a tray to be sent up, along with an unopened bottle of sherry. Later, he stood at the top of the stairs, staring longingly toward his bedroom door. He would dream about her tonight—a woman he’d known for less than twenty-four hours.

  Gabriel found rest in one of the guest bedrooms, instructing his valet to wake him at six with breakfast, coffee and a hot bath.

  Secrets had been part of the family legacy for as long as Gabriel could remember, but he wasn’t going to keep secrets about Henbury Hall from her. She deserved to know what happened. At least the truth as he knew it.

  He doubted the entirety of the claims his father made, just as he doubted that George Blasington had been completely truthful with his young children. How could he? Perhaps Lord and Lady Fortenay knew the whole truth and had shielded Nora and her brother from the painful reality.

  As he waited for sleep, the side of his face started to throb. He rubbed the length of the scar, then opened his mouth a few times, trying to relieve the tightness. He shouldn’t be surprised that the old injury would make its presence known on a night like this. Which followed a day like today and a night like last night at the Weatherby Ball. He suspected it had more to do with the reminders of the Henbury Hall fiasco.

  What had his father been thinking?

  Gabriel had grown tired of watching his father descend into an obsessive sort of madness. He’d tried to stop him. What he got in return was his father wildly swinging a garden trowel that sliced across Gabriel’s face. Blood had gushed everywhere, and his father? He’d just dropped the trowel and walked away. They hadn’t said a word to each other for over a year. Father kept up his search for the unholy grail. The nonexistent grail.

  Maybe the pain had developed because he was the one who would have to share the uncomfortable news with Nora. What a strange lot in life. Find a beautiful intelligent woman and she was the one woman in all England who would be most hurt, most angry, most intractable.

  No, that wasn’t exactly true. Even Nora would admit she had pursued him for just this reason. She would get what she asked for. And how he hated that he would be the person to break her heart all over again.

  He wondered at the men in Dorset. One of them could have alleviated her grief by courting her, persuading her to marry and then have children upon whom she could pour her love. Maybe she could have forgotten all about George Blasington’s failed legacy.

  Perhaps Lady Fortenay had something to do with that. She was part of a literary society that had taken London by storm some decades ago. The ideas weren’t so much against societal norms but in intellectual pursuits. No, she would not have discouraged Nora from marrying—it was too important to a woman’s security.

  And here he was. Alone on his wedding night. A beautiful and desirable wife alone and angry in bed, in another room.

  The next few days would be spent in lifting her spirits with the application of generous bribes. Things a woman would enjoy.

  Things he would enjoy doing for his new wife.

  * * * * *

  If Nora were at Henbury Hall, she would be the lady of the house. Instead, she felt compelled to stay in her room for fear of bumping into Carlow’s mother. Or Carlow himself.

  After her deceptions, so common to th
e Blasingtons, Nora was perfectly willing to hide her dishonor behind a locked door, at least until the kerfuffle of their marriage had settled.

  She spent yesterday mostly alone except for Molly, her lady’s maid, along with a servant who brought food when Nora called. She’d slept an inordinate amount of time, causing her to wake near four the following morning.

  Tiptoeing out of her room, her robe tightly belted and her slippers warm, she walked around the house, stopping here and there to admire a statue, touch the binding of a book and enjoy the view of the rose garden with the moon shining fully upon it.

  Before she could get back to her room, Nora heard another pattering through the house. She peeked out the door of the library to see Carlow’s mother, already dressed for the morning, heading toward the kitchen. Nora waited for the creak of the door before she bolted to the stairs, hurried up and secured the bedroom portal behind her.

  Nora leaned against the back of the wood panel, breathing hard. She placed a hand against her mouth as a burst of laughter welled up. Sneaking around a house that was now her domain!

  The dowager countess had the right idea for an early trip to the kitchen. Nora’s stomach growled. A platter with some simple fare would be most welcome. She glanced at the red braided pull cord and decided she could wait another hour or so. Instead, she went to the remains of last night’s tray and nibbled at a piece of bread.

  Then, she crawled back into Carlow’s wide bed, the scent of him lingering even though the sheets were fresh, pressed with fine lines. She would move to her room tonight. She supposed Carlow was making a gesture, though last night she’d had the thought he might knock on her door and assert his husbandly rights.

  She hadn’t locked the doors.

  Nora had already decided she wouldn’t deny him. When the three months ended, she would have given him no excuses to deny their agreement and Henbury Hall would be hers. She could hear Lady Fortenay remind her that agreements must be in writing.

  For the thousandth time, she wondered why Henbury Hall wasn’t entailed. It could have been saved, untouchable for any reason. Whose error was it?

  At six, there was a knock on her door. Nora jumped from bed and hurried to open it, peeking out to see her husband, ready for the day. The scent of baking bread had been wafting upward for the past hour, and she could already taste the sweet smoothness of fresh butter and farm honey.

  “Lady Carlow. Your breakfast.” Carlow held the tray with casual ease. He was dressed as any gentleman of the town, ready for riding it would appear.

  She gripped the edges of her robe and retied it quickly. “Good morning,” she said.

  “You look ravishing. Was your first night of being my wife fulfilling in every way? You were taken care of?”

  Nora touched her hair, knowing it was a horrid mess. That was just how she woke every morning. “Yes. I slept, mostly.”

  He pushed past her. “Come join me at the table, dear. I wish to discuss our day together.” He lowered the tray on the table, pulled out her chair and then began to place the breakfast dishes within reach. Then he waited.

  “Really, Carlow. I don’t need anything,” she said.

  “Except Henbury Hall,” he quipped. “Are you going to spend the entire three months locked up? You aren’t in prison.”

  She found her chair, as did Carlow, and reached for the warm bread for which she had been salivating. She leaned over and smelled the aroma of the fit-for-a-king breakfast. All that she could desire. Fresh and hot. She buttered the bread and drizzled the honey across it, thinking how she could answer such a statement.

  After the first bite, she asked, “What did you have in mind?”

  “We will ride in the Park this morning. I’d like to leave at seven. We’ll have morning tea with Mother around nine. At eleven we are going over to Bond Street. That part is a surprise. After we return, we’ll rest before lunch, at which Ellis Rawden and Nash Hildebrande will join us. I’ve also invited your brother and the Reverend Wright, though I haven’t heard from them yet. At seven, we’ll attend a concert at the Park near the Stanhope Gate. An orchestra from Wales. We return home, dress for the Exeter’s grand ball and enjoy another fabulous evening. By the way, what dances do you know?”

  “That sounds exhausting. As for dances, only a few country reels.” She nibbled at a piece of crisp bacon.

  “The cotillion. A Scottish reel? I think we should be able to dazzle the crowds with even a simple dance.”

  Somehow, she would talk Carlow out of going. It had been many years since she’d set foot to a dance floor. And she wouldn’t admit to him she had no ball gowns. That was why the Weatherby Ball had been so perfect for her plan: a costume and no reason to dance with anyone.

  Pride was a troublesome thing. She might not care for the man, but she wasn’t going to embarrass either of them by wearing country clothes at a grand ball.

  They ate in relative silence. Carlow glanced at her, his gaze intense and examining while he asked her a few questions, things a man should have known about his wife months before marrying her.

  “You know you could have just walked away last night,” she said, slicing a hardboiled egg and placing it on her toast.

  He leaned back and gave her that inscrutable look she hadn’t been able to decipher yet. It was different than when he talked, animation lighting his face.

  But just looking at her. Assessing every facet of her being. She wasn’t used to it. When Gigi tried to find answers from Nora, it was as if she were both interested and distracted. Nothing intimidating like Carlow’s hooded gaze.

  “You want the truth, of course. I don’t know if you will believe me,” he said.

  “It’s always about honor and duty with the nobility. I suppose you will tell me such tripe to appease my curiosity.”

  He laughed. “The truth is about as far from honor and duty as it can possibly be.”

  “When you found out I was the Nora Blasington and you realized how I trapped you, how I embarrassed you, and yet you still agreed.” She lifted her teacup and took a sip, wrinkling her nose at the bitter taste. She did not enjoy tea in any way but drank it to be sociable most of the time.

  “Because I had decided hours before that I wanted you. I wanted you in my bed. I wanted you under me. I wanted you with me. And that was about the time you spoke your fifteenth word. After that, marriage or whatever you offered or wanted wasn’t such a stretch to grant you. Even the possibility of giving up Henbury Hall in exchange.”

  “Am I supposed to believe that?”

  “Men don’t feel the same things women do, at least not in the same order,” he said, wearing a wry smile.

  “What does that even mean, Carlow?”

  He leaned forward; the animated smile had returned. “Because before a man asks a woman her name, wonders at her dowry or who her family is, long before he takes her hand or even thinks of kissing her, he is thinking one thing only: What will it be like to fuck her?”

  “Fuck?” She blinked a few times. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “You can’t imagine? Not even the slightest clue? I am no simpleton, Lady Carlow. If any woman knows that word, it would be you.”

  “But I don’t know.” She searched her memory. Lady Fortenay had required that Nora memorize volumes of words. Vulgarity wasn’t tolerated, though.

  “Shag? Swive?”

  “Oh,” she said, and leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Your manly impulses?”

  “Quite.” He returned to his meal and she watched, mulling his words, which could hardly be true. No man, no gentleman, thought that before he became acquainted with a woman.

  I mean, how would he know without a basis of reference?

  No. He was lying. Timothy would have told her of such a thing, if it were true. Or Lady Fortenay, who knew everything.

  “You ought to eat a bit more. You’re going to be hungry when we sit at a table again this afternoon,” he said.

  “Carlow?”

  “
Yes, my dear.”

  “I don’t have a riding habit.”

  He smiled, quite diabolically. “Hopefully, you don’t have a nightgown either.”

  Chapter Four

  Later, when Nora descended the staircase, Gabriel had a better understanding of his wife’s wardrobe. Without knowing for sure, his instinct told him she was wearing her best dress—a gray print with white cuffs and a white lacy collar. The dress was drawn high on her waist and gave a good hint as to the figure beneath. Her bonnet was tilted on her head with a large bow tied at the side of her neck. She held a small parasol but no reticule, along with perfectly ordinary gloves.

  He held out his arm and led her outside to the waiting carriage. With the entire day reordered, Gabriel had decided he would take care of his wife’s immediate needs.

  “A perfect day to start our marriage, don’t you think?” he asked.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. She held her chin high. Of all the things he had presumed about this woman, he was surprised to see her boisterous confidence hid an unsure ingénue. A practiced, petty thief to be sure but also an unsophisticated, mostly wholesome girl.

  She probably drank milk before bedtime.

  And she was his wife. Hell-bent on revenge and mistrustful of anything he said or did.

  “We are going to the Bond Street shopping district. There is a small bauble I wish to purchase, and I need your assistance.”

  Nora hugged her side of the carriage and kept a vigilant gaze on the passing scenery. He caught her obviously delighted smiles as she observed the sights along the route.

  “When was the last time you were in London?”

  “I think I was eight,” she said absently. “Right before my father died.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the jeweler with whom he was familiar. Wide-eyed, Nora stepped from the carriage and glanced about, taking in the majesty of buildings, open parks and the crowds of ladies and gentlemen in all their finery.

  “Here we are.” He took her hand and led her inside a quaint shop with a thick door. A small bell tinkled, and he blinked a few times to get used to the darkened interior.